In Damnatio Memoraie
by Aldebaran 07
Summary: A bitter tale of revenge.
1. Speak Softly, Carry A Six Shooter

_A/N: Hello everyone and welcome to my first ever Fallout fic. This is one of many ficlets that I've been working on for a little bit, and decided to post it up. It is an original with certain elements of canon blended in, and will be of short story length, taking place in the Mojave desert in late 2281. Expect numerous small updates like this (most should be relatively longer) and if you have anything to say then leave a review! Let me know if you'd like to see the story continue or have any constructive criticism, which is certainly welcome. Anonymous reviews are also strongly encouraged. Cheers!_

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**The Virtus Stories: In Damnatio Memoraie**

.

.

.

A man once unknown to all of Freeside steps out of the licentious Atomic Wrangler, face drawn.

He senses danger as the sun challenges his vision. Hints of ozone dance through the air,

strange sounds…

Two men appear clad in rags, their faces dissolute by squalor. A lead pipe appears in one of their hands. Then the laser pistol he was expecting.

The man smiles. A tense moment stirs the air.

The first thug with the pipe lunges at him, who is still standing there. Not with the usual helplessness of an 'innocent' victim but with the firm resolve of someone familiar with violence. As his final moment meets him head on the man sidesteps the overhand blow, parting his black duster to unsheathe his weapon. Combat armor sparkles underneath. In a blur of motion he slices his attacker's arm clean off and in the blink of an eye the curved sword's hilt is protruding from the other thug's chest, his now lifeless corpse crumbling into the asphalt while the other writhes on the sidewalk.

The man left standing hasn't broken a sweat, his smile has but finally left his lips after silently embracing his victory.

Denizens of southern Freeside look on in bizarre fascination while the mysterious man kicks over the dead thug and removes his weapon. He wipes the blade on the corpse and slowly walks over to the mortally wounded one- completely in shock, and not worth saving. The screams are drawing attention. Discreetly, he reaches into his cloak, withdraws a revolver, and puts a .44 special into his skull all the while murmuring some archaic Latin phrase.

A gentle wind sweeps in on the stifling silence, onlookers still glued to his every move.

Reaching back into his duster he produces a small woven bag and takes out two circular coins. They shimmer chromatic gold as one by one he tosses them onto the thug's bodies. The man walks away completely unscathed. Not a speck of dust had landed on him during the fight, which could hardly be considered a fight at all- he resumes his business as if nothing had happened; the nearby impoverished residents rush in to be the first to get the money behind him. A severely malnourished woman is beaten down by a man twice her size. A boy smeared with dirt and grime gets trampled by three people. At first he reaches for his gun, sickened by the sight of such squabbling profligates fighting over four caps worth of currency, but quickly holsters it like he just remembered something. For a brief moment he stops, closes his eyes, and deeply exhales-

Then, having walked down the street, he disappears into the Silver Rush.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N: As you can see I decided on a cryptic intro- I hope you end up enjoying who the character is! Many answers coming your way.


	2. Incognito

"Anatolius, we're glad you could make it," a lady behind the only desk in the room beckons him as soon as he enters. The place still looks like the bedraggled casino it once was hundreds of years ago.

"I am ready for my posting," there is a fleeting tone of hesitation in his voice, of forced composure. He is standing face to face with her now,

"Yes, I didn't think you'd be anything less."

This is the second time the man has dealt with Gloria Van Graff and her bald head- it practically makes him sick to his stomach every time he thinks of taking an assignment from a woman; nonetheless a woman who does crooked business as a manager. He has no choice. There will be no questioning the will of The Son of Mars, no desire. Not yet.

"You'll be a doorman along with Simon for the first week, as per your contract. If you excel we'll find something more _challenging_ for you. Go see him to suit up and get put through the paces."

Without saying another word, Anatolius turns around and heads to the exit, leaving only murmurs amongst the guards in his wake.

Outside, Simon is waiting for him. He can barely see the dark skinned man as he emerges from the 'store'. He needs sunglasses.

"I guess you're the new guard everyone's been talking about."

He nods.

"Right, well, your reputation precedes you, so I'll just let you get started…" he leads Anatolius to an elongated silver-metallic case that could easily fit a small armory. On the top is a golden lion head. Simon bends down and unlatches the crate, revealing a formidable array of firepower- black signature combat armor and a slew of energy weapons.

Stripped down to his pale green tunic and dark pants, the man stows everything else except the pendant hanging from his neck into the container.

"Laser, or plasma?"

It didn't take the slightest hesitation for him to answer- plasma is simply a superior form of matter.

"Nice. Now I can flash my tri-beam.. haven't been able to in weeks."

"What now?"

His face straightens out, "The rules are pretty simple, even more so for a man like yourself. We guard the door. That's it. You're on that side, I'm on this side. Four to eleven. We don't wander around, we don't gamble, or throw caps at prostitutes. We don't drink. Save it for after work- here- we're professionals."

"I understand." He's in full Van Graff ensemble now.

"Heh, I like you already. Now take your place on the other side of the door."

.

.

.

The first hour proved to be the most boring posting Anatolius has ever undertaken…

By the second, they had only a single customer (a harmlessly lucky gambler), where Simon could at least show him the proper way to greet or turn away someone without blowing holes in their legs. The whole point is to screen and let pass those with money, deny drunks or chem addicts, and in the ultra-rare incidence; disallow anyone who is over a certain threshold of suspicion.

In other words; it's the easiest job in the dilapidated slums of Freeside that involves having a weapon.

Hour three: a clearly impoverished man stumbles in their direction as the sun dips below the decaying buildings. His face is haggard and unruly gray hair splashes across his shoulders in tangled knots, his gait unsteady by alcohol. A drunk.

"Eyyyy..- hic!" the inebriated fool sputters, standing there for a moment, "Ish this where I can get a zappy gun?"

Anatolius turns him away with ease; despite perhaps being good intentioned about entering.

The fourth hour ticks past in an indefinite, seemingly interminable existence. Twilight strikes the sun-bathed sky. The man let a few people in after screening and didn't have to turn down anyone, but business is less-than-average today. Wednesday apparently just isn't the day to buy high-tech guns.

"I've gotta ask, man," Simon subtly accosts him, shifting in his plated armor, "What's got an ex-Praetorian of the Legion doing a job like this? I saw what you did outside the Wrangler.. that was no small feat."

He smiles. Takes his time before answering, staring out at the half-destroyed buildings and torn up streets. The bodies are gone. A woman is lying half on the sidewalk half on the road- she isn't moving.

"When I was with them, I missed out on a lot of things. I'm trying to find out what those things are."

With the way he worded it; it wasn't _entirely _a lie.

"Yeah? Well this is a hell of a way to see the world." He senses sarcasm in his words, if good-natured.

"It's a start."

"Hah," he lets out, a friendly smirk pleating his face, "That's good enough for me. I feel safer with you than with the last person who got put on this bum posting…" the wind steadily picks up again.

"Something about her just.. it's like danger _follows _her around."

The man's ears prick up for a second,

"Her? Who is she?"

"Ah.." Simon curses, lost in thought, "Name's on the tip of my tongue. Great girl, don't get me wrong, I just had this feeling about her. Anyone who can walk in and out of the Lucky 38 on free reign is someone I wouldn't want to follow around. But someone Gloria would want on door duty."

Anatolius darts his gaze to the dark man. His tone and outward calm shift dramatically,

"Can you find out?"

"If you're so interested, I'll let you check our contract ledger yourself after the shift. Why you lookin' for her?"

"If it's _her_..." he looks down and studies the cracked pavement beneath his feet, hands white-knuckled underneath his gloves from gripping the plasma rifle too hard. Blood pressure spikes and a throbbing vein appears on his forehead. Hatred accrues within.

Looking back up he meets Simon's brown eyes with despondence in his own,

"There's some loose ends we need to work out."

He no longer wants anything to do with this job, or the Van Graffs, or any other group related to his mission.

He wants _her_. And there's only one person who could possibly fit her description.


	3. Light of Night

Night falls. The two guards stand as ever-vigil sentinels of the dark. One is especially restless.

Anatolius is sick of letting people in without anything happening. He wants action, something to take off the edge so he could wait out his shift (without feeling the urge to pace around for the last hour). Now is not the time to have to stand still. With nothing to do but watch the pale waxing moon rise into the night sky.

"What does she look like?"

Simon snaps out of his daydreaming and takes in a breath, soaking in pleasant memories,

"Gorgeous, man…" his voice is soft in recollection.

"They say she's the most beautiful and deadly woman to ever come to the Mojave. I tend to agree- even a Cazadore ain't got nothin' on that piece of ass. She wears a dark tight trench coat a lot of the time, and carries this _big _ol' modded out Gauss rifle around- can't miss her if you see her."

The man's eyes darken, his mind drifting into the melancholic memories of the past. Plunged into inner turmoil, he has nothing to distract him. Talk is cheap and no potential customers walk the streets as the night winds down. All there is left is the sound of despair.

Finally opening his mouth to speak, Simon cuts him off-

"Well shit," he glances at the Pip-Boy attached to his wrist, "Looks like we're officially off duty."

"Good."

"Excellent first day, Anatolius," he reaches out and shakes his new partner's hand, "Let's get paid and I'll pull that name for you."

.

.

.

_Moments later…_

_._

_._

_._

The man bursts out of the Silver Rush, a fresh bag of caps jingling at his side. He's in his usual attire but his face is markedly furious as the metal door strikes the brick wall. Before he even makes it under the illumining glow of the corner streetlight, someone appears in the doorway. Simon.

"Yo, man! You sure you wanna go that distance?" he yells after him,

"It's hours away. No love story-gone-bad is worth _that_ hike!"

Anatolius stops underneath the yellowed light and turns around,

"It's worth it. Do you know where she is exactly?"

"Like I said; probably Westside."

"She stopped by yesterday. Put her contract on hold. Said she needed to help out a friend of hers or something and was headed to one of the Vaults in the middle of nowhere. That was, _after_ she makes a pit-stop at Westside," he scratches his head, leaned up against the frame, "Sounds like a Mojave goose chase to me, dog. I'm just sayin'."

"I need to find her, Simon. Thanks for the info." He begins to turn around again and head down the street.

"Alright, man, alright. Hey- want me to walk you down? I need a cig break."

"If you want." The man doesn't stop.

Simon pokes his head inside for a moment and yells about 'burning anyone who touches his paycheck,'

then he hops down the single step and catches up to him.

The way out -the main causeway of Fremont St.- is fraught with squatters and thugs that are far more interested in someone's money than the person themself. Some sit in their doorways and broken porches while others wither away in dark alleys full of empty jet canisters and detritus. A sign above haphazardly reads "Welcome to Freeside"- the 'Freeside' part being a conglomerate of letters all from totally different original designs. A few gunshots pop in the distance as the two fearlessly walk down the middle of the street. Directly ahead is the King's School of Impersonation glowing in its effervescence of neon. The entire scene repulses him, with its ignorance and hopelessness far worse than the doomed Old World.

Anatolius learned to stomach it. It wasn't easy, but neither was his role in the war to unite the desert.

"So… how far do you and her go back?" Simon asks out of genuine curiosity, lighting up a cigarette.

"Twelve years."

"Jesus!" Smoke pours out of his nostrils, "That's dedication. Longest I've ever made it with a single broad was five months.. and that wasn't pretty." He hoists his tri-beam laser rifle with one hand at a beggar trying to walk toward them.

"It isn't like that."

"Awww, screw that man! Twelve years and you're tryna find her? You kiddin' me? You've gotta be head over heels with her…"

Simon would never understand the relationship between him and her. Have enough scars in the same place and it can create art, but most of the time it creates a better story- one that can only be witnessed fully in the head who's experienced it. A story that shouldn't be told.

"Not exactly."

"Fine man, I get it. Touchy subject. We can leave it at that, but remember," he stops at the intersection to the Boulevard and drags heavily on his smoke, "She's got a day on you. It's gonna take some serious tracking skills to find her."

Little does he know- Anatolius is the best in his field.

"And don't go getting yourself killed by Fiends or something! We got work at three."

The man departs and jingles all the way down Las Vegas Boulevard, flashing his revolver at any impudent begging lowlife who 'asks' him to share. The lights of New Vegas shine indomitably behind him.

Yes, he _is _the best at what he does…

He is Frumentarii.


	4. Mr East

It's a quiet night on the outskirts of Vegas. A constant cool breeze compliments the distant repetitive lull of weaponsfire, moonlight guides every careful step and maneuver. The stagnant southern ruins sit bleakly in front of the city lights without even a clue that someone was passing through. Aside from the occasional glint of a campfire, no one walks the pathways of packed dirt and sundered gravel.

Anatolius pokes his head out from the side of a derelict home, casting an analytic glance down the 'road'. Nothing. Not even drugged-up Fiends for target practice. With grace previously unseen, he dashes across the street into the shadows of a garage awning and reaches the end. To the west is the Sharecropping farms he's been reconnoitering for several weeks; he keeps his head low as he passes by and skirts the perimeter of the Aerotech Office Park. Neither NCR nor civilian alike detect his presence.

The sounds of life wane out the more he removes himself from this debauched society. He enjoys the silence.

Just a quarter-mille south, a rusted metal shack comes into view. A few blackbirds picking at refuse near the door don't even know someone's approaching and frantically scatter to the sky with trills of protest once they sense the man. Now standing outside the improvised doorway, a key flashes in his hand.

.

.

.

The Legionary's safe-house is just how he left it-

Clean. Full of guns. Completely functioning with running water and electricity. No vermin, no mold. Not all Frumentarii get their own; just the ones who stick around long enough to withstand the petulance of Edward Sallow and survive for years thereafter. In other words- hardly anyone.

Upon sliding the grated slab of metal to the side, he enters the modest confines, turns on an electric lamp on a table crammed into the back, then lets his body weight hit the armchair beneath him. His taught muscles melt away, leaving him with only the pains inside himself as he looks around. The room appears much larger on the inside. Conventional firearms of all kinds and sizes line the four walls, a bed sits unused in the back corner with a set of armor sprawled on it, all adjacent to a weapon's bench and reloading station. Every square foot is used effectively and is completely devoid of clutter or ineffectuality- a headquarters for a single person.

Anatolius leans back in his armchair, running his hand over his shaved head.

There's a ham radio sitting on the table. It taunts him. The man only acknowledges its existence but with wary glances that are few and far between, seemingly waiting for something to happen. He reaches for a small notebook next to it; a weathered pocket journal with a long forgotten emblem imprinted over a crimson leather casing. Wiping away a few denarius and picking it up, he grabs a nearby pencil and thumbs through the many pages, all detailing his time 'incognitus' among the civilians of New Vegas. There are almost captious amounts of Latin phraseology imbedded in the writing. What little that was learned through experience undercover turns the tone to disdainful and begrudging as opposed to earlier accounts of a more indifferent attitude. Most groups, as well as some of the Families of Vegas, are annotated as almost guaranteed future enemies who will become subservient or will be outright destroyed.

Flipping to a blank page he begins writing…

.

.

.

* * *

_Day 44, 12/23/81_

_I've found her _(The sentence fragment has been scribbled out until almost illegible)

_I have made contact and done business with the California-based Van Graffs, per my third tour of reconnaissance under Caesar's order. It has taken but two days to realize their true nature typical of most merchant houses; shrewd, cold, and cunning businesspeople whom will kill anyone that undercuts or merely competes with them. They seemed ideal for open-trade relations with the Legion, until I peeled back the layers like a pre-war gilded mantelpiece. Like the architecture, they are cheap and dirty, at the heart a sadistic family business with a troupe of hired thugs led by an even more sadistic half-brother. Their weapons are of poor quality and not to be trusted. Additionally, none of these profligates deserve status in our ranks and should be put to death. There is only one man worthy of service, whose name I have mentioned in the album redemptionis._

_That same man has led me to the assumed location of the girl with the platinum chip._

_Now it is only a matter of waiting, and time._

_Time is just time…_

_But she won't wait._

_Pro Quantum Bonus Vir_

_._

_._

_._

His handwriting gets a little shaky towards the end as he tries keeping it strictly professional, but then the radio chimes and rattles him from his brooding.

Anatolius quickly flicks a few buttons and calibrates the largest knob on the device. A signal comes into focus,

"Ave, Mr. East," a sly, snake-like voice cuts into the cozy atmosphere of the shack.

"Mr. Fox."

"I assume you have made contact?"

"Ita Vero," the man speaks into the microphone, "We've arranged a contractual agreement. Five days, five thousand caps, then I move up. But there's a problem-"

The inauspicious voice on the other line quakes with a cackling, sinister laughter,

"What, you don't like being _door _man?" Mr. Fox sneers, quieter now, "Even I thought our Imperator had more faith in you."

Brushing aside the rebuke as best he can, the Frumentarius squelches the anger that brews,

"They remain debased, corrupted beyond any village we have pacified. The house is not worthy of business."

"Then find their weakness and give us a way to end their dissolution. It is easy, not a 'problem', Mr. East. You know at least that much."

He wants to cringe every time he hears his moniker. It's a pseudonym he would gladly pass on to the Legate.

"I know where the chip is," the man leans closer,

silence and static permeate the airwaves.

"She still has it."

"How can you be certain?"

"My watch partner told me. She's done business with them."

"And you believe him?"

"He's trustworthy enough," he begins, drawing a deep breath into his lungs, "I want to go after her."

"We have an entire fractioned Centuriae looking for her; all they need is a location."

"They can't go where she's going… I can."

There is a momentary relapse of silence,

"Go on…"

"Westside. The city within a city- even you haven't been there. _That's_ where she'll be."

"Hmm…"

"If she's not there?"

"I have reason to believe she intends to travel to a Vault. Given her trail, it would have to be 19, 3, or 22," unmistakable zeal flavors Anatolius' words.

"Very well. What you do outside of your current job is of your own accord, but do not let your past cloud your sight of the future. We'll have a Contubernia each head towards Vaults 19 and 22, while sending a scouting party to watch the Fiends at the West Ruins. Use them to your advantage- meanwhile- I shall report this to our Imperator."

"Gratias ago." He's relieved- extremely.

"Just remember where your orders are coming from. If it weren't for his vision and leadership, we would still be savages desperate to kill each other… now we stand on the pinnacle of greatness.."

"..Contact will go as scheduled," Mr. Fox's voice gains an edge of finality.

"Understood. Vale."

"Vale."

The radio cuts out, leaving the man with the silence of the night.

Standing up, empowered, he strips back down to clothing and paces over to his bed, examining the black recon armor laid out, a nondescript bottle of purified water in his hand. With the moon almost at three-quarters, the Legionary will need low-reflective gear. Because of the distance, he needs lightweight weaponry, and because of the danger, needs to keep it stealthy and low key. He crosses his arms and stares out at the armaments hanging from the walls, pondering…

Within five minutes, Anatolius is armed and armored to the teeth,

ready to embrace whatever it is his fate may be-

He opens the door and ventures out into the Mojave.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Just to clarify... mille is a Roman mile (no shit, right?), and is measured at 4840 feet.

Also, I plan on doing a future collab with L.A. Ranger with this story and his own, _The Ballad of Mattias Juno _

Go check it out!


	5. Cold Hearts

A/N: This is part 1 of 2 of the segment entitled _Cold Hearts_. The next will wrap up the ensuing events. I'd like to take a second and thank each and every one of you who have read this far; it means a lot to me... a special shout out to any of you kind enough to review my stuff and the anonymous reviewers who I can't thank directly.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Two leagues westward and the first obstacle of the starry night reveals itself-

Scorpions. A campfire brims with effulgence in an open clearing ahead, forewarning of imminent death for those who draw near.

He watches from a distance with a pair of binoculars, noting every patrolman's move, every interaction and mannerism. He secretly admired the raiders for their organization, as well as their shared skill of Legion-style flash raids that almost always prove successful. They're even mildly civil. Still, none of it deduces from the fact they will attack on sight, and will more than likely have to be destroyed in the future. For now outright avoidance will suffice like it always has.

Anatolius feels the outline of his only Stealth Boy at the bottom of his pack. With one last glance from behind the crumbling brick wall, he prepares to press on-

just as something stirs in the mostly intact house behind him.

Spinning around, he instinctively reaches for his weapon as his eyes fall on a ghoul hunched in the doorway.

"Hey smoothskin! I thought I heard someone," he staggers uneasily toward the confounded man who takes a couple steps back, "Got a few caps, man?"

The Frumentarius is alarmed by the disheveled mutant,

"Have you gone feral, ghoul?" He exasperates with blatant incredulity in a kind of whisper-yell, hand on the pistol veiled within his duster, "They'll hear you," he precariously shoots a look back at the camp.

"They don't pay you no attention unless ya get close.. I only need a cou-"

"I have nothing for you." Irritation flares in his voice.

Even in the dark, he can see the ghoul's mottled face flesh twist into a frown, then reaffirm,

"Come on man, I'm dyin'… just…"

"Please…" He meekly walks forward again.. reaching out a hand.

.

.

.

Anatolius looks down at the bizarre sight in front of him,

then to the smoking magnum clutched in his left hand. Back down. Up. Down.

He slides open the cylinder. Not a single bullet, not one in the chamber. There's nothing he can do but stare at the headless corpse as it drains itself of irradiated blood. Six shells simmer in the dirt around where he stands.

Abruptly, something unexplainable slams him in the face, bringing him back to attention as if rising out of an ethereal fugue state. They heard. Panic rises to his throat like the pursuit-calls into the night…

If there is any remaining chance the Legionary can evade detection by the Scorpions, it's now.

Taking one last look at the emaciated body wrapped in tattered rags, he conceals his .44 and emerges from the conglomerate of broken-down housing, leaving only a coin behind. There's no time to waste. Unparalleled alacrity may be on his side, but time certainly isn't- he can see figures moving toward him in the distance as he scrambles for an impromptu escape:

Things would be a hell of a lot easier if they were drugged up Fiends instead.

Anatolius barely gets away sneaking along the southwest ruins, using a series of burnt-out cars to reach their right hand flank. They're still heading to the source of the gunshots. About a half-dozen… some stay back to keep vigilance over the camp while others go to sleep. Breaking his line-of-sight with the Scorpions the man disappears behind a twisted morass of urban decay, comes out the other side, and quickly navigates a half-mille span of the ruins; the density begins to spread out notably around more structurally sound architecture… fire barrels flicker from afar paired with the occasional lit up window.

Fiend territory.

This is where extreme caution is required. One misplaced footstep- the entire place erupts into a din of clamor. A cruel fate of either being bludgeoned to death or hunted down like an animal. No matter how comfortable he is sneaking through, no matter how many times he's done it, Anatolius can't help but feel endangered on his first steps into the mess of ruins claimed by the savages… but after that; his scout instincts and discipline take over. Even if the Fiends have numbers on their side, they don't have a particular skillset. He'd kill fifty before they take him down.

Profoundly careful, Anatolius takes his first step into a building that had retained most of its second story ceiling. He uses the derelict shelter as a sort of comfort zone to penetrate their turf as no one ever uses it save the occasional squatter. From there; it's sheer luck. The layout of the territory itself is rudimentary at best- the bulk of them are centered around Vault 3- the rest are unevenly spread throughout the remaining Vegas ruins into little splinter camps of unorganized heathens.

As he passes near the adjacent doorway the man stops mid-step. Both ears prick up.

Voices. The meandering sound reflecting off the concrete is undeniable, but then stops altogether. Anatolius keeps steady footing on the cracked foundation, enters the room, and turns through the next doorway…

… right into a handful of Fiends illumined by the moonlight. Some are standing in the broken room, some are sitting around a heap of sputtering hot coals- they all stop whatever it is they're doing and look right at him.

"Oh."


	6. Cold Hearts II

A tense moment of confusion grips the air, a moment of interminable existence in which the Legionary curses his luck, his 'special' assignment, the slovenly raiders and every event that led up to this. Most of all he curses _her_. He's got about five seconds until he's hacked or shot to death.

What happens next is exactly why the man is Frumentarii.

In an impromptu act of self-preservation, Anatolius shifts into a nonthreatening stance and puts his gloved hands up into the air,

"Wait, wait! Don't shoot!" The Fiends stop to listen to the pleading, the man's voice shifted into a wastelander accent,

"I've got chems…"

Their collective demeanor is beguiled into a more benign state, a small sack tossed onto the floor. It's only healing powder- but they don't know that. Now they are expectant, as inquisitive as a group of drugged-out malcontents could be.

"Who the fuck sent you, rookie?" A severe looking woman with long, wiry hair spits at him with a harsh tongue.

"I- I'm a courier for the Great Khans, sent to deliver a package to Motor-Runner in Vault 3," not a single stutter. Good.

"Here- let me show you…" he reaches under his pack and fiddles around until his hand brushes against a frag grenade. As he slides his finger through the iron ring, Anatolius raises an eyebrow at the Fiends.

"The fuck you waiting for?"

_Click_.

"I'm not waiting for anything."

"Huh?"

Precious time slips through his fingers. It's time to make the move.

A sudden blur of motion precedes the room erupting into panic, wide eyes set on the object rolling towards them and the man who has disappeared. They scream in terror as they watch their grim fates materialize. Take one last life-or-death chance to escape, but all they accomplish is falling over each other.

The Frumentarius has already sprinted through the adjacent room and is out the window by the time the grenade goes off, its explosion oscillating, roaring through the residence. The entire second floor collapses. A shower of ash and cement billow out of the window above him, followed by a blood-curdling moan from inside. Relieved but all too aware of what lies ahead, he whips out his silenced 12.7mm submachine gun and charges through the smoke. He takes refuge inside a City Liner on the nearby road- waits for the right time to strike and carve a path.

That time takes a while to come, but in minutes a small group of Fiends show their faces. Three.. four. Others are probably behind the building judging by the faint screaming.

_Easy._

Isolate. Eliminate. Anatolius racks a bullet into the well-oiled chamber and draws a bead on the raider closest to him through his retrofitted scope. Watching intently with piercing eyes and a chip on his shoulder. This one's high out of her wits, stumbling around with a pool cue as if she actually knows what's going on, horned helmet practically sideways on her head. He sucks in a deep breath, gives two firm tugs on the trigger.. the hollow-points go clean through her torso and drop her to the dirt. Not one of them catches on in the ensuing moments as he methodically calculates the patterns of his targets. Always easier with Fiends…

Then two others appear from inside, dragging a legless comrade around back. They end the screams.

_Thwip!_

_Thwip-wip!_ The gentle sound marks their deaths.

Inevitable suspicion is aroused when the remaining thugs find the fresh pile of bodies. Three left. One of them wears an atypical set of painted metal armor spliced with spare parts, shouldering an incredibly beat up plasma caster, the others wear savage Fiend garb and tout petty small arms. He'd have to poke for weaknesses or land a direct headshot to take out the leader, but Anatolius knows this plan must be executed well or else he risks never walking out of the ruins.

While the three stand over the bodies trying to discern through their drug hazes what exactly is was that killed them, one of the 'normal' Fiends drops to the ground without a peep. Suppressed bullets then ding off the metal man's plates until one catches him in his forearm. That's when he sees his attacker,

"Ow! Motherfu- wait… there he is! The bus!" His perception is sharper than the rest; probably from a prolonged mentats addiction, "BURN HIM!"

There's no time to reload, just rearm. The bus gives him enough protection until he's able to come back up with his hunting revolver covered in non-reflective tape, but the Fiend lieutenant is firing wildly, at fixed position while the other rallies behind a chunk of cement. A volley of plasma zaps inaccurately around the man and melts the ancient paintjob into viscous drippings of chemicals. Discreetly he moves to the back. Draws back the hammer. Fires.

The other Fiend's duck-and-cover game is predictable- predictability gets you killed in a fight. A high caliber round cleans out his skull cavity as he lurches backwards. One left. The Legionary empties his clip into the last raider, knocking him back but not fazing him in the slightest. Quickly realizing his .44 is dry because of the ghoul incident, Anatolius feels for his final loaded weapon.

Plan B.

Finally he breaks cover and leaves the Liner- just as the entire back melts down into a mass of blue. Perfect timing; his adversary's weapon fizzes from lack of a power source and doesn't know how to reload it offhand (or is too high)… so he drops it, dives to his buddy's brain smeared cover and takes up his varmint rifle. The moment the profligate shows himself, his cover explodes into pieces. Sends him reeling feet backwards with a 40mm grenade.

Anatolius uses the moment to his advantage. He pumps his stockless launcher and fires again, making a beeline for a wrecked Corvega. Overshot. The grenade clears its target and blows out the left corner of the two-story building. The entire structure shakes at the foundation, then crumbles into a noisy plume of sand and dirt…

once the smoke clears he sees the small army closing in on their position.

"Valde…"

Meanwhile, the Fiend leader sucks down several doses of jet and stands up like he's fine. Instead of making him more careless in the firefight, the methamphetamine gives him exceptional accuracy and gunmanship on top of riling him up so he's able to pin his attacker with just a bolt-action.

The margin of error has shrunk to almost nothing. Distract, converge, escape. He must escape now.

That's when divine intervention sweeps down. In an amazing stroke of good fortune, a group of silhouetted figures appear on the small rise of buildings to the southeast. Entrenched, they let loose a tirade of gunshots on the dozens of Fiends, their choice of weapons saying it all. Scorpions. They must have followed the sounds of action all the way to their fringe territory. This being contested turf; they have every right to fight for it. Metal man and the rest of the raiders sloppily retaliate, while a hint of a smile crosses the hidden man's lips at the miraculous event,

almost like he planned it all along.

Crouched low he takes his main pack off and finds the Stealth Boy. He hurriedly straps it around his wrist, pulls it tight, and subtilizes into a barely visible blur.

Distract. Converge…

Escape. The sound of war follows him out of Fiend territory.

.

.

.

Since his stratagem was more than successful- Anatolius had free reign of the southwest Vegas ruins,

all the way to Westside. Partial invisibility helps him sneak by any stragglers he comes across as well as the infamous Monte Carlo suites. The sky lightens with the promise of morning, though it is still the dead of night, by the time the stealth device dies.

Westside's gate comes into view. Reaching into a pouch on his belt he stops and takes out a strange device- an inclinometer roughly resembling a pre-war astrolabe. A star-taker. He extends one side of it and aims at the heavens…

4 a.m. Impressive, even by a Legionary's standards.

The man walks unabated through the junk door and back into the thralls of civilization. Westside isn't nearly as bad as Freeside; a lower crime rate consequently brings a lower death rate at the hands of the local militia. It's still an aesthetic nightmare, but old buildings are old buildings. What Anatolius truly respects is the settlement's independent nature; a rare commodity amidst the NCR-Legion power grab and something noteworthy in his travels.

Since he wants to avoid suspicion by inquiring to every local in sight, he heads to the one place in town where every secret is kept to uphold the Old World adage of Las Vegas- a personal favorite bordello. The drab gray of the sagging Casa Madrid apartment complex is waiting for him, taking up most of the street as he approaches near. Marco isn't in his usual spot so he sits down in the chair outside the door, flips through his pack, and pulls out a few strips of dried meat and some water.

While he eats he notices his hands shaking. Then a lingering stinging sensation,

as adrenaline fades and reality fully sets in, he realizes he has shrapnel lodged in his neck. Plucking it out with thumb and index finger, he wipes the blood away, chews on a cactus leaf for the illusion of fresh breath, and walks in.

.

.

.

"Well if it isn't my best worst customer," the 'manager' Sarah quips, leaned up against the wall beside the stairs,

"Woah- what's got you in a rush?"

"I'm looking for someone, the girl with the platinum chip- can you help me?"

"Uhh… she came in earlier but the only person she talked to was..-"

A young woman trots down the stairs and interrupts. She's gorgeous, wearing just a tank-top and shorts, her short brown hair tied back in a messy bun.

"… Sweetie."

"Anato!" She runs and leaps onto him in a bear-hug that's strong for a woman, "You're back!"

"He's looking for your lady friend."

"Oh, you mean-"

"I really need to know where she is, Jane."

"Mm.. do you now?" Her comforting voice slips into hinted seduction.

"Yes. Can you tell me?" He's short tempered after the night's events, but her voice peels him apart like hard layers to a softer core.

"Sure I can…"

She takes a step closer,

"But that's no fun. What do you say we… uh…" Sweetie leans in on him, pressing her soft skin against his cold armor, "Trade?" She runs her hand along the inside of his leg.

Anatolius sighs, but quickly sees the upside,

"Deal."

She takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs.

"Just don't destroy the room like last time!" Pretty Sarah yells after them. She doesn't get a response.

"That armor is gonna be _real_ fun to take off." A door slams shut behind them and locks.

Even if it is noble to resist carnal pleasures, Anatolius simply can't help it around her. He never could…

Cold hearts are warmed by lust.


	7. Author's Note

_Hey everyone, as the majority of you know I stopped updating the story awhile back. This was due to school and personal reasons and so I just wanted to make a public announcement:_

**_Anatolius is returning November 2012!_**

_Regardless of how slow the process has been lately, I assure you that this story will be completed in its entirety and I'll try not to let you guys down! Hope you're all out there and still willing to read:)_

_._

_._

_-Alde_


	8. Reflections of the Morning Sun

**_A/N: Well here it is everyone, the story is officially moving again!:) Leave a comment if you have anything to say_**

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

"Yup, long gone."

His fears were confirmed. All the work was for nothing.

"This was pointless…" Pirouettes of smoke hang in the air. He hands the cigarette back to Jane, nicotine buzz coming on thick.

"Well I wouldn't say _that,_" a sly smile lingers on her lips. The sex was good, that much is undeniable, but it was a complete waste of time. She should have told him earlier. _Valde…_

Anato wordlessly lies in bed with the covers part on, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against his. Air damp with spent lust, the right mix of sin dulls the disappointment enough not to get up and leave.

"Do you know where she's going?"

"Nope, no one does, otherwise I'd tell you," she breathes down another drag and lets it out her mouth and nose, offering it with her free hand, "She left the city yesterday afternoon."

And that was the end of the trail. He wouldn't find a lead until after his work shift.

Methodically sucking down the cigarette to a burning stump he let his mind run rampant, tired eyes fixed on the broken ceiling fan. Cornering her at a Vault was too easy to be likely to have happened anyway, and so was finding her in Westside on a hunch. In the event she's headed out east packing heavy like Sweetie had said.. her business here is finished and she's moved on. That's clearly what she did.

If there's anything Anatolius found truly difficult over the past six months; it's tracking her.

Jane brushes the covers aside and gets out of bed. Shivering for a moment she walks over to the dusty window and parts a drape torpidly hiding a cracked pane of glass. She stretches with arms behind her head; the sunrise's warmth silhouettes her naked body with reddish pink and endearment completely foreign to him. Where others would simply say 'beautiful' no words can come to mind; there is no beauty in a life of violence, there are no words for these things. Those words of sensitivity were forgotten decades ago, hung up like pictures only to fade into obscurity and dust.

The spent cigarette's ember grazed his finger and burns him. It forcefully pries himself from the confusion he felt inward; pain binds to reality. Upon tossing the smoking butt into an ashtray he mentally starts over.

Planning ahead always kept him alive and in control. He would check the Strip that night, ask around the hotels disguised as a well-to-do gambler and consult his contacts in each. The Contubernia of soldiers sent to the vaults would arrive too late, so if no lead is found, he'd have to consider cutting chase until a later operation. Caesar would want him back at the Fort soon.

That gives him less than three days to find her- it wasn't impossible, just improbable.

"So where are you going now?" Another cigarette dangles from Jane's lip as she turns around, joining Anatolius on the lifeless bed in a bathrobe.

"Freeside. I have work to do."

"Are you still gonna try and find her?" She already knew the answer, but had to ask out of pain of not knowing.

"I have to."

"Why? You never did tell me."

"Because…" he looks over to the tacky nightstand, to the silver pendant resting on it,

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

"What did she do to you?" She asks worriedly,

No response- the question brought it all back without warning. Images he successfully forced down for months had surfaced like they always did. Thoughts of a simpler time turning to unuttered chaos, chaos that outweighed the calamity of all else to be experienced, washing it away with an ashen sea of innumerable cultures. He'd been proud once, in that time before the change. It is because of her he'll never feel that way again, the way he did ten years ago where vitality replaced age and the stress that now showed in everything said or done.

All he can do is lean back on his elbows, close his eyes, and heave a sigh at events come and gone.

"She betrayed me."

Jane hung her head, "I'm sorry," the inflection in her voice told him she genuinely cared.

"It's not your fault."

He already knew she did, though. Part of him wanted her to care but he knew where his life was going- and that she had no place in it. Then again, she didn't belong prostituting herself in a Vegas brothel; she was easily better than that.. but it was a repetition he saw everywhere he went. Anato pondered for a while, getting up and moving toward the wash basin, morning air crisp on his skin. The water was colder and sobering.

"I see now why you've been acting different…" He looked at himself in the mirror; she was right.

When the Legionary arrived here from Flagstaff, he was much more himself than he'd been lately. His life up until this point was a long ebb and flow of change, but he still had the spark of willpower in his eye, the eagerness of adventure. Everything about his life changed when he realized Angel was here in the Mojave. Of all places on this damned earth, it was here.

Why? The familiar question hounded his thoughts while he stares into the dim reflection of blue eyes.

"I don't like this, Anato. I feel like I'm never going to see you again…"

She stirs him from his introspection. Jane was perceptive, impressively so, and probably right. If he isn't dead within a week the war could kill either of them. Almost fully dressed now, he quietly slips on his necklace and then his armor.

"Just promise me you won't kill her."

"I can't promise anything."

"Please…" she pleads, standing up from a desk chair to meet his stare and slipping her arms through his,

"Don't hurt anyone."

They stood there embraced in each other's company, and in that moment Anatolius got that feeling again, the feeling he'd been waiting for that made him… peaceful. He never knew what it was- complex emotions had become too hard to distinguish over time, but…

It felt like hope.

"I'll try not to," a tear of Sweetie's rippled down his armor as she let go and looked him in the eye. Was it that obvious he was lying?

"Shall I walk you out?"

"I'm in a hurry."

"Okay," her voice is shaky. "Be careful Anato, I…" she trails off teary-eyed, now in the doorway with him,

"Goodbye."

His eyes said farewell, but nothing escapes his mouth except silence. Hesitantly breaking eye contact he moves down the hall, the stairs, out the door-

And into the red glare of the rising sun.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_I hope you liked it! The next chapter will have a bit more action in it, cheers and thanks for reading. More content soon_


End file.
